


For Oleta, Part 2

by MadHattie



Category: Within the Wires (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, cassette fic, set after season 1, sorry if my descriptions of cassettes are inaccurate I'm only 19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 06:56:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10238450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadHattie/pseuds/MadHattie
Summary: For some a cassette is like a letter, just with more history attached.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic now has a podfic version by sonnyofthestars!! You can find it here http://sonnyofthestars.tumblr.com/post/170200270348/for-oleta-part-2-podfic

I miss making these tapes for you, Oleta. I miss talking to you, however one-sided our conversations. Of all the things I had to do at the Institute, recording tapes was the most tolerable. There was even some fun in folding instructions and messages into visualization exercises, like children developing a secret code. That’s not to say that I took the task lightly, of course. I was scared for you. I am still scared for you, just not for the same reasons. I am glad that I can no longer see you through a system of monitors and mechanical eyes, but the fact that I can no longer see you at all frightens me. There are so many things that could happen to you without my knowledge. Your surgery scar could become infected, or the institute could find you and bring you back. You could have left the cottage by the sea without ever listening to this tape. To be honest, that’s the possibility that frightens me the most

That’s why this tape I’m making is for you, but also for me. Of course you are the intended audience, but the speaking, that’s for me. There’s something calming about speaking your thoughts out loud, as if their transformation from neural impulse to airborne vibration makes them more real, more valid. These thoughts have become sound, so they must exist. That assumption isn’t very logical, but after my time in the Institute I’ve had enough of logic.

I bought this tape recorder in a fit of impulse and emotion. I was in a shop looking for batteries when it caught my eye and I thought of you. I often think of you. I walked up to the register with the recorder, some blank cassettes, and twice as many batteries as I had been planning on buying. My story, if anyone asked about the tapes, was that I wanted to make some music and record it. I have no idea if it would have worked, because there was no one else in line, and the cashier was too caught up in the monotony of his job to comment on my purchases. 

This recorder is not at all like the ones we had at the institute. Those were built into soundproof booths with high-tech microphones to reduce extraneous noise and special music that you could put into the background. This one has a plastic casing and a foam-topped microphone. At least the buttons are the same.

I wonder where you are sitting as you listen to this, if you  _ are _ listening to this. I like to think that you are listening to this. Are you in the iron chair on the porch looking out at the sea? Or perhaps you are sitting on the couch opposite  _ Mountain Horopito #4 _ . Those were my favorite places to sit, although I suppose everyone has different preferences. As I record this message I am sitting on the floor of a small, sparse apartment in a big, crowded city. I won’t say where, exactly, just in case this tape is found. I will just say that I would be surprised if you had not heard of this city, even if you have never been here. This apartment is mine, but it is not being rented under my name. Almost nothing is under my name now, the name you knew me by when we were children. It's better that I leave that name behind until I come home to the person who already knows to call me Hester.

If you were wondering why I am sitting on the floor, it is because I don't own any chairs. This apartment did not come with furnishings- it is not that kind of apartment. It is the kind of apartment where you pay your landlord in cash and do not speak to your neighbors. All of this is fine by me, as I don’t plan on staying here for long. This is more of a pit stop, a place for me to rest and plan my next move. I have been traveling for what feels like an eternity, but there are still things to do and places to go before I can see your face again, Oleta. Maybe I never will see your face again.

I wish that I could say that I am happy just knowing you are safe, but that isn't quite true. I am glad that you are free, and I know that my long journey is helping to keep you that way, but there's a hole in my heart where you should be. I want to see you and let you fill that space, not like the creature with the spindly legs that resides in the abdomens of so many people, but like a bird coming home to roost after a long flight. I want to be your home, Oleta. I want to be home with you.

  
  
_ The tape whirrs, then clicks. A woman reaches up to remove her cheap plastic headphones. She shakes out her hair, a dark cloud of curls that surrounds her head like a halo. She is standing at the edge of the ocean, letting the current bury her feet as it shifts the sand along. The woman looks out towards the horizon, as if she is waiting for someone to arrive. _


End file.
